


say it ain't so

by AugustaByron



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Comedy of Errors, F/M, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Outsider, Platonic Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 20:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: “Oh, Parse, no,” Jeff whispers to the phone. Adele?Clearly, someone needs to handle this situation.In which Kent Parson is obviously depressed over the Jack Zimmermann thing, and the Aces (led by Jeff Troy) rally to their captain's defense.





	say it ain't so

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Have whatever this is, which I wrote when we still believed that perhaps Kent Parson had a support system and a found family in Las Vegas. I remember those times fondly. I think the only warnings are for grown men being idiots. Parse makes a joke about suicide once. 
> 
> Title from Water Under the Bridge by Adele. 
> 
> Check, Please belongs to Ngozi Ukazu.

The whole thing is an accident, really, and Jeff is sticking to that story.

He’s hanging out at Parse’s house, waiting for the rest of the guys to show up for the annual Welcome Back cookout. Parse is fussing around with steaks in the kitchen, getting them seasoned for the grill.

“Put some music on,” Parser hollers, “you’re fucking boring, dude.”

 Jeff is texting his fiancée, thank you very much, so he has better things to do than entertain Parse. Come to think of it: that is always true, whether he’s talking to Letty or not.

"You’re the worst host,” Jeff tells him. “We only come here because you’ve got a pool.”

“You love me!” Parser yells back, and Jeff resolves to fill his locker with Jell-O sometime soon. He needs his head shrunk again. Jeff can blame it on the rookies.

He goes and grabs Parse’s phone, though, unlocks it and opens Parser’s playlists. There’s almost certainly something for today. Parser makes playlists for everything, in a way that makes Jeff sure, in his very bones, that his captain used to make mixtapes for anyone he had a crush on. Jeff is just waiting on evidence so he can chirp Parse about it until the end of time.

He’s scrolling down, looking for “Party” or “Welcome Back” or something, and he sees a series of playlists labeled “Pregame.” That’s expected--the Aces have been subjected to years of Britney Spears in the locker room. But then there are some funny ones: “Pregame Schooners aka FUCK THOSE ASSHOLES,” “Pregame Drinking Not For Games,” and--

“Oh, no,” Jeff says, but he can’t help opening “Pregame--Falcs.”

He stares in horror. There are two songs.

All I Do is Win. That’s fine, typical Parser asshole behavior. But the only other song--

Water Under the Bridge.

“Oh, Parse, no,” Jeff whispers to the phone. Adele?

Clearly, someone needs to handle this situation.

 

Jeff waits until he has had three cups of Parser’s nuclear-strength punch, for courage. And then he gathers the core of the team into the guest bathroom.

“We need to discuss,” Jeff begins, trying to give his words the gravity they deserve, “the Zimmermann situation.”

“Are we talking about this now?” Oz demands. “I thought we had--you know, after that thing two years ago--”

“--a gentleman’s agreement to never mention it,” Coshy finishes, which is why Jeff is never again inviting a D pairing to a secret meeting. It’s freaky when they do that.

“Thought we were just going to run media interference,” Malks adds. “Stop him from declaring heartbreak to ESPN.”

“Why are we in the bathroom?” Scraps asks plaintively. “There’s a whole house.”

“I was snooping,” Jeff says, and then raises his voice to be heard over the general booing, “I was snooping, okay, in his phone, looking for music, and I found a playlist. A Falconers pregame playlist. Guess what was on it. Go on, guess.”

Nobody ventures a guess. They all exchange grim looks instead, here in Parse’s horrible mermaid-themed guest bathroom, united in reluctant love for their captain.

“Adele,” Jeff says, so that they will understand that this is serious. “It was just Adele. And not fun Adele.”

“What the hell is fun Adele?” Coshy mutters, but the rest of the guys are getting their game faces on.

“What is plan?” Malks asks, all growly and terrifying.

“I do not know,” Jeff says, to yet more booing. “But! But, I know we have to cheer him up.”

“And destroy the Falconers.” Scraps cracks his knuckles.

Well, obviously. That part is a given.

 

The boys are all too happy to put out a kill order on Jack Zimmermann. They don’t play Providence enough to do much on their own, but it’s a small league. Everybody’s got friends in the Eastern Conference. Coshy alone has two brothers over there. The guy’s going to be getting backchecked into next week every time he plays in Florida.

It doesn’t seem like enough, though. Now that Jeff is looking for it, he can see that Parse is depressed. He’s putting a lot of pictures of his cat on Instagram. He’s also sticking to one beer when they go out, which should probably be a good sign, but--Parse only drinks when he’s happy. So it doesn’t bode well.

“Do we know anyone on the Falconers?” he asks Scraps one day, when they’re out to lunch. Parser begged off, claiming a meeting. Like hell. Parse always complains about meeting with management until Jeff wants to kill him. Today--nada. Thus, no meeting. The alternative would be Parse growing up, which will happen when hell freezes over.

Scraps frowns, thoughtful. “Parse is friends with Mashkov,” he says. “They always hang out when we play each other, and they trained together over the summer.”

“I think I’ve got his number.” Jeff is pretty sure he had to text Mashkov directions to some club where he met up with the team last year, or maybe the year before. He’s never talked to the guy on his own, but this is for the greater good.

The Falconers are coming to town in like a week, anyway, and Parse is getting more and more drawn and humorless. It sucks. Jeff wants his best friend back.

 _Drinks after the game_ , he texts Mashkov. _I’ll text you the details_.

Mashkov texts back, _Okay?_ Like it’s already assumed. Jeff’s heart warms at that. That’s a good buddy right there, knew he’d be hanging out with them without anyone having to ask.

Jeff tells Parse the plan right after the game--they won, of course, because the Falcs fucking suck. Parser looks all sad and shit, though, even though he got a goal and an assist. He’s concentrating on tying his sneakers like it’s rocket science, shoulders tight.

It makes Jeff’s heart twist a little to know that Parse listened to that fucking sad playlist in the locker room tonight, before stepping onto the ice. Their ice. That’s not cool, that’s not how any of the Aces should feel in their own house.

“Going out with the boys tonight.” He nudges Parse, knocks him out of his funk.

“Cool,” Parse says, smiling that cool smile at him like Jeff’s the media or a puck bunny or something. Yeah, good thing Jeff called in reinforcements.

“Put on your sexy jeans,” Coshy yells from across the room. “We didn’t make a reservation, somebody’s ass has got to get us into VIP.”

“If you’re pimping me out I want twenty percent!” Parse shouts back, flipping him off. That’s more like it.

 

It’s going pretty well, Jeff thinks. Coshy was talking out of his ass, Jeff totally called ahead, so they’ve got a bunch of booths on the upper level of Parser’s favorite trashy club, safe behind the velvet rope. Clearly Parse isn’t super depressed, because he’s already on his third Long Island when Mashkov finally shows up.

Mashkov and two other guys--the Falconers’ goalie, Snow, and--

“Jesus Christ.” Jeff pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. He can hear Coshy and Oz groan in creepy unison, and Malks is swearing in Czech.

Trust Mashkov to bring Jack Zimmermann.

“What’s wrong with you?” Letty asks. She narrows her eyes at everyone. “What did you do? Whose fault was it?”

“This is why you don’t marry a middle-school teacher,” says Malks, which gets Letty’s glare turned on him. At least that’s good for Jeff, who gets to pay attention to Parser. But also bad, because _that_ means he sees the moment where Parse registers who’s just shown up.

It’s some West Side Story bullshit, honestly, the way that Parse’s grin freezes and his eyes go big and haunted, like the way the rest of the room goes blurry when Tony sees Maria. (What? Jeff’s got three sisters. He’s seen a lot of musicals.) Parse has been holding court with the rookies, bonding and being captainly, and it all just--shuts off.

“‘Sup,” Snow says. Mashkov and Zimmermann loom at either of his shoulders like they’re his bodyguards.

“Hey,” Jeff says, since Parse’s brain is still broken. “What’s up?”

The boys and assorted WAGs make room for the Falconers, and somehow Jeff ends up with Letty on one side, and Parse, Mashkov, and Zimmermann jammed in on the other.

Letty spends about two seconds assessing the situation before she reaches across the table to shake Zimmermann’s hand. “Hi, I’m Leticia Menendez.”

“Jack Zimmermann,” Zimmermann grunts, and shakes her hand. Parse drains his glass.

“I’m gonna head to the bar, anyone need anything? Letty, another G&T?” Parser doesn’t even wait for Jeff to get up, just scrambles over him to escape the booth. He books it for the bar, never mind that they’ve got a waitress. Jeff is thinking about getting up, asking if he should just tell Zimmermann to leave, when Mashkov slips out of the booth and follows Parse.

Mashkov catches up to Parse at the corner of the bar, grabs his elbow and bends in close, says something or other to him. Parse slumps against Mashkov for a second before he clearly remembers that yeah, they’re in public, and he probably shouldn’t look too obviously wasted. Then he draws away, straightens up, focuses on getting the bartender’s attention.

“I teach social studies,” Letty is telling Zimmermann. “Eighth grade.”

“Oh, I was, uh, a history major,” Zimmermann says. Jeff wants to bang his head against the table.

We do not like this guy, he tries to psychically project, as Letty and Zimmermann start to discuss goddamn United States history. Unfortunately, he and Letty do not share the weird bond that Coshy and Oz do, so she keeps talking to Zimmermann like he isn’t _the enemy_.

Jeff glances back towards the bar. Mashkov has Parse by the elbow now, is in his face saying something. Words of comfort, hopefully. Parse tugs his elbow away, does his shot, and jerks his head at Mashkov. Then he starts walking away. Mashkov watches him go for a second, does his own shot, and follows.

Good, Jeff thinks. Hopefully they’re going somewhere quieter to talk about their feelings.

That’s a weight off Jeff’s mind.

 

It gets _worse_.

 

“Nah, man, I’ve got like three episodes of _Chopped_ to catch up on,” Parse says when Jeff invites him over to play FIFA. “Wanna come watch them with me?”

“Yes,” Jeff lies. “Yes I do.”

He sits on Parser’s stupid giant couch and listens to Parse yell at the TV about presentation of appetizers.

“You eat with your eyes first! Jesus, get a load of these amateurs,” Parse scoffs, like Jeff did not see him burn his mouth on a Hot Pocket just last week. Things are clearly getting dire.

When he goes home, Jeff breaks the news to Letty. “We have to have a threesome with Parse.”

She puts her grading aside. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s depressed over Zimmermann. Also I need to ask him to be my best man.”

“Jesus,” Letty grouses, “Why does he get all the romantic gestures?”

But she makes a lasagna and buys a bottle of reasonably classy wine, and Jeff tells Parse to come over and not look like shit. Parse presents himself on the doorstep with flowers, wearing a shirt that makes his eyes look very green, and pants that make his ass pop.

When pressed, Jeff will admit that Parse is very pretty.

They eat the lasagna and drink most of the wine, and then Parse insists on washing the dishes, the way he always does. Jeff watches Parse wash and Letty dry, heads bent together, laughing over god knows what. It’s like--Jeff is sometimes struck by it, how lucky he got, to have Letty and the Aces and Parse in his corner.

He tucks himself up close behind Parse and tugs a wet plate out of his hands.

“This can wait,” he says, leans down to kiss Parse’s jaw. Letty smiles, puts down her towel. She cups Parse’s cheek with one soft hand and kisses him, too. Parse smiles into the kiss. It’s a nice thing to see, fills Jeff with a warm rosy feeling: his favorite people making each other happy.

It’s something they’ve done before, but not for a while. It’s been maybe two years since Jeff has watched Parse lay Letty out on their bed and kiss his way down her stomach. Jeff is happy to watch while Parse eats her out, while Letty gasps and tugs on Parse’s hair.

“God, I love you,” Jeff says when they’re done, not exactly sure who he’s talking to, and slicks up Parse’s muscular thighs, fucks him fast and hard between them, gets to lean over and kiss his back while Letty jerks Kent off underneath him.

When they’re cuddling, after, Jeff presses a kiss to the side of Parse’s throat. “Hey, do you want to be my best man?”

Parse groans, covers his face with the arm that isn’t wrapped around Letty. “Christ, you romantic motherfucker, this is the best broposal ever. Yeah. Get ready for the most epic bachelor party in the world.”

Jeff pulls Parse’s arm down so he can kiss him, once, softly.

“You two are so weird,” Letty says, the fondness in her voice bubbling over. “Go to sleep, boys.”

Maybe, Jeff thinks, as he falls asleep with Parse’s head on his chest, this will help. Maybe Parse will get that he’s loved, that he’s wanted, and he won’t keep pining over Jack fucking Zimmermann.

 

Parse cheers up after the nice affirming threesome, just like he always does. Jeff is pretty smug about that, even if he tells Malks and Scraps that he’s just been having Parse over for dinner and leaves out the parts that involve dicks.

And then they go to Providence.

Jeff texts Mashkov again. _I think he’d like it if you came to hang out_. Because Parse could use a buddy, especially after last time. It’s the tail end of a long-ass roadie, too, which means the whole team is ready to kill each other.

 _Not so sure_ , Mashkov texts back. Jeff frowns down at his phone. What, does Mashkov think he knows what’s best for Parse?

 _Be there_.

Mashkov shows up, alone this time. They’re not at a club this time--honestly, Jeff isn’t sure that Providence has any clubs. But they’re hanging out in a bar, tender over a narrow loss, and Mashkov appears at their booth wearing his game-day suit and a hangdog expression.

“Kent,” Mashkov says, low and urgent. “Need talk to you.”

Parse stands up right away, instinctual, and goes with Mashkov. Jeff stares after them, struck by something, the way that Parse leans up to watch Mashkov’s eyes, maybe. It’s something Jeff’s only rarely seen before, all of Parse’s attention in one place. Parse looks at hockey pucks like that, he looked at the Stanley fucking Cup like that.

He looks at Mashkov like that.

Oh. Shit.

Several different options fly through Jeff’s mind. He could text Letty and ask if Parse can move in and just platonically marry them, plus companionable sex to keep him away from any other dudes, since he clearly has _the worst taste of all time_. He could lock Parse in a tower. He could punch Mashkov’s lights out, because holy shit. That playlist?

Not okay.

What did Mashkov do? And how the fuck did Jeff miss this?

“I will kill him,” Jeff decides, aloud. Scraps, god bless him, just nods.

Parse comes back to the table after a few minutes, looking pale and wobbly. “I’m gonna go hang with Alexei,” he says, a little too hearty.

“Cool, I’ll come too,” Jeff announces. Parse’s eyes widen, and Jeff can’t help feeling a little--hurt. Parse is his best friend. Why didn’t he ever mention anything? If something was important enough to fuck him up this much, this deep--

“We’re just gonna go back to his house so I can pet his dog,” Parse says.

“I love dogs.” Jeff stands up, tosses some cash onto the table to cover his share of the tab. “What kind of dog? Doesn’t matter, I love all dogs.”

“Uh.” Parse licks his lips, clearly thinking frantically. Good luck, pal. Jeff is onto him now.

And the mission has changed. He is going to be cockblocking like a goddamn champ.

 

They make it Mashkov’s house without incident. Jeff nobly restrains himself from yelling in the back of the uber, at least.

“Daisy glad you come,” Mashkov says as he unlocks the door. They’re greeted by a hundred pounds of enthusiastic Rottweiler the second they walk in, and Daisy does seem pumped to see Parse. She bowls him right over and starts licking him all over his face while he laughs.

While Parse is busy babytalking the beast, Jeff meets Mashkov’s eyes. He crosses his arms and glares, which seems to alarm Mashkov.

“Beer? Come on, I get you a beer,” Mashkov says, and herds Jeff towards the kitchen. “What’s problem?”

“The problem is my best friend is a wreck, and it’s your fault!” Jeff jabs a finger at Mashkov, who just looks puzzled.

“But--keep inviting me out! Thought Parse wanted to see me.”

“I didn’t know you used to date him,” Jeff hisses. “I thought he was--the Zimmermann thing!”

“What Jack have to do with it?” Mashkov frowns. “Parse is depressed? Why didn’t--”

“Hey,” Parser interrupts from the doorway, “not that this isn’t a super cool invasion of privacy, but I need to take Jeff and go throw him into the nearest river now. See you around.”

Parse drags him out of the house by his elbow, which shouldn’t be possible physically, since Parse is such a shrimp. Yet a minute later Jeff finds himself shivering on Mashkov’s front porch, waiting for Parse to order an uber.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When have I ever told you about who I’m fucking?” Parse snaps back. He hunches down into himself, like he’s shielding his middle. Jeff wraps an arm around Parse’s tiny little shoulders.

“Parse, you idiot,” Jeff says as gently as he can. “You weren’t just fucking him.”

Parser slumps against Jeff. “Yeah, I know. But whatever, he dumped me. So it doesn’t matter.”

“He’s a moron, then.”

“Not everyone who breaks up with me can be a moron, dude,” Parse says. Jeff begs to fucking differ, but clearly it’s not the moment to say anything. Parse is pale and looks exhausted, and Jeff has a lot of revenge to plan.

“We’ll kill him,” Jeff says. “I’ll tell the boys to switch the kill order from Zimmermann.”

“Christ, of course there’s a whole conspiracy,” Parse mutters. “Just leave it alone, dude. He didn’t want to meet my family, he didn’t want to tell anyone we were together, he didn’t want to be exclusive. It’s not a crime. People don’t always want the same things.”

“That--not what happened,” Mashkov says from behind them, voice all choked up, and Jeff almost jumps out of his skin. How does such a big dude walk so silently? How the hell did neither of them notice Mashkov opening the damn door?

Under his arm, Parse has gone completely stiff. “Please tell me you didn’t hear all that, or I’m following Jeff into the river after I push him.”

“Kent,” Mashkov says. Jeff glares at Mashkov over his shoulder, but Parse manages to eel away from Jeff and take a step _towards_ the enemy, what the fuck.

“What the hell do you mean, that’s not what happened? I was there, Alexei, I think I remember,” Parse says, all bratty like when he’s trying to argue his way out of a penalty. Jeff wants to take him away, bundle him into the uber, which, look, it’s here.

“Jeff, I’ll see you later,” Parse says, firmly. He isn’t looking at Jeff. He’s looking at fucking Mashkov, and still with that stupid expression on his face, like this dude who is clearly the worst is thirty-five pounds of silver and nickel.

“I think we should go back to the hotel,” Jeff tries, because he has to give it one last shot.

“Later,” Parse says, in his captain voice. Jeff gets in the uber. He stares out the back window like a creeper for as long as he can.

Parse and Mashkov stand on the porch for a minute. Mashkov’s hand goes up, like he’s going to touch Parse, and then it falls again.

They go into the house, and then the car is pulling away and Jeff can’t see them anymore, damn it.

“Just visiting friends?” the driver asks, cheerful. Jeff sighs.

“Yeah, something like that.”

 

Parse sits down next to Jeff at the hotel’s breakfast the next morning with the world’s most obvious hickey on his neck and a grin on his face.

“Since you’re apparently super invested in what I do with my dick, I got it sucked last night,” Parse tells Jeff. Scraps, sitting across the table, spits out a mouthful of orange juice. Jeff and Parse stare at him in horrified unity.

“I didn’t think people did that in real life,” Parse says. “I thought it was just in the movies.”

“Did some of that come out your nose?” Jeff asks, a little concerned. “Also, thank you, Parser, that is a mental image I will never be able to scrub away and I am worse off for it.”

“Your loss, it was awesome,” Parse says. “I’ve also got a boyfriend now, so you’ve got to break the bad news to Letty that I won’t be available to satisfy her sexually when you fall down on the job.”

“How will we ever cope,” Jeff says, and lunges across the table to give Parse a purple nurple.

 

Parse brings Mashkov to Jeff’s wedding.

“I never got the full story of what happened there,” Letty mutters during the rehearsal dinner, watching Parse reach up to readjust Mashkov’s tie. It’s weirdly tender. Jeff is still suspicious, but it turns out that Mashkov is a pretty chill guy when he and Parse are communicating like grownups, so he’s hopeful.

Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know. Some kind of misunderstanding. I guess it’s not my business.”

“When,” Letty asks, incredulous, “has that ever stopped you?”

“Well,” Jeff says, leaning over to kiss his almost-wife, “I’ve had better things to worry about.”


End file.
